


Joy

by wheel_pen



Series: Miscellaneous House MD Stories [2]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Kid Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-22
Updated: 2015-02-22
Packaged: 2018-03-14 11:59:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3409760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_pen/pseuds/wheel_pen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>House has a daughter. A few scenes over the years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Joy

**Author's Note:**

> The bad words are censored; that’s just how I do things. I hope you enjoy this AU. I own nothing and appreciate being able to play in this universe.

_@ age 5  
_

Sitting by Mark’s bedside while he slept seemed the appropriate wifely thing to do, but after a few hours it became... too much. Too much thinking about him and them and what might happen, and what might have happened years ago if... So she had to get out, take a walk around the halls, something. And somehow she had found herself at Greg’s office. She could trade a few barbed comments with him, maybe tell him something about Mark that would make her husband seem a little more human to her ex-boyfriend, maybe reminisce about the old days. Although Greg had never been much of a reminiscer.

Looking through the clear Plexiglas door she didn’t see him at his desk, so she pushed inside and turned towards the attached conference room, half-expecting to see him playing with his Gameboy or watching a soap on his hand-held TV. She used to tease him when she found him getting caught up in the daytime soaps he watched when he was home during the day; he would always smirk and turn them off quickly and tell her he was just practicing for the day when he was old and living alone with his five cats and watching them all the time.

Greg was not in the conference room, and neither were any of the young doctors who followed at his heels like puppies. The room was not devoid of life, however--a little girl sat at the table, coloring with great focus.

What on earth was a _child_ doing in here? With his well-documented misanthropy—which contrary to some beliefs was in place _well_ before the incident with his leg—Stacy had been surprised to learn that Greg did not, in fact, hold a special place of hatred in his heart for children. He didn’t _like_ them, certainly, but he disliked them no more than he disliked adults. At least that was his feeling when they had last spoken on the subject, which granted was a long time ago.

“Hi there,” Stacy said with a friendly smile, trying not to startle the girl.

The child looked up at her and grinned cheerfully in return. Stacy guessed her to be four or five, although she didn’t have much experience with children so she couldn’t be sure. She was reasonably adorable, with blond hair and a little blue dress that set off her eyes—which were taking in Stacy’s appearance with an unnerving intensity. The girl waited expectantly.

“Um, I was looking for Dr. House,” the woman explained, and then wondered why she felt she had to explain herself to a child she’d just met.

The girl’s pale fingers fluttered in front of her, and Stacy realized she was signing something. A _deaf_ child in Greg’s office? Surely she couldn’t be a patient, since she obviously wasn’t ill enough to merit a hospital bed.

“I’m sorry,” Stacy told her, enunciating clearly. She knew better than to think speaking loudly would help, but speaking slowly, with hand gestures, might get her point across. “I don’t understand sign language. Can you read lips? Can you understand me?”

The girl nodded pleasantly and Stacy drew closer. _Someone_ ought to be in to see to the child in a few minutes, she decided, and she could just wait for them.

“I’m Stacy,” the woman told her. “What’s your name?”

The girl pulled a fresh sheet of paper from the stack in front of her and began to form letters with a blue crayon. Stacy noted that she was drawing on the back of what appeared to be old medical articles. The girl pushed the paper towards the woman after a moment. “Joy,” Stacy read, somewhat confused. “Is that your name?” The girl nodded. “That’s a beautiful name, Joy.”

Joy patted the empty seat next to her, which Stacy took as an invitation to sit down. “Thank you,” Stacy told her. What was one supposed to do in these situations? Oh, yes. She tapped the girl lightly on the arm, so she would turn her head towards Stacy, and asked, “Can I color with you?” Joy nodded and selected a sheet of paper and a handful of crayons for her guest. Obviously the child was used to being around strangers. Stacy wondered idly about the legality of leaving a young child alone in a hospital for such a long time as she picked up a red crayon and began doodling random shapes. Stacy had never been much of an artist, certainly, but the pad of paper by the phone was always covered in crosshatches, squiggles, and cubes she had absently drawn while conversing with someone.

Silence and the smell of crayon wax pervaded the room for a few moments, then Stacy looked over at the girl’s drawing. It appeared to be of a brownstone with bright pink flowers planted out front. “Is that your house?” Stacy inquired, after getting the girl to face her again. The woman supposed she should have sat opposite the girl, for the lip-reading thing to be less awkward.

Joy shook her head and signed something, which Stacy of course did not understand. She shrugged apologetically. The girl picked up another crayon and began to write something above the house. _Grandma_ , it read. “Is this your grandma’s house?” Stacy tried, and the girl smiled and nodded. “Does your grandma live nearby?” Maybe _she_ was a patient here, but she had sole custody of the child... Joy shook her head. “Are you here visiting her? At the hospital?” The child frowned and shook her head again. Stacy felt chastised for her lack of knowledge and went back to scribbling.

Finally Stacy heard the office door opening and turned, expecting to see one of Greg’s protégés wander in. She supposed she really shouldn’t be surprised that it was Greg himself, since it _was_ his office, but she still didn’t know quite what expression she was supposed to face him with. She decided on a tight smile, especially after seeing his eyes narrow with suspicion and displeasure upon spotting _her_.

Greg limped over to the table and dropped the paper sack he was carrying squarely on the drawing the little girl was making, with a peevish, “Next time get your own d—n lunch.” With a long-suffering sigh, Joy carefully pulled her masterpiece out from under the bag and set it aside. Stacy took this response to mean the child was used to Greg’s behavior, which indicated she must have been around a while. The plot thickened.

Stacy found herself ignored completely as Greg continued on to the mini-fridge and dug out a bottle of water for himself and a small carton of milk that he slid down to the child. Joy opened the bag and pulled out a styrofoam container, opening it to reveal a reuben. Immediately she set that aside and removed a second container with a turkey sandwich. Greg snatched up the reuben and started to settle in at the end of the table, the farthest possible seat from the two females. Before he could take a bite of his lunch, however, the girl rapped on the table to get his attention, then pointed to the seat across from her. With a sigh very much like the girl’s own, Greg moved to the indicated position. Stacy watched them without bothering to hide her curiosity.

The girl signed something to Greg and he rolled his eyes. “Yes, I _know_ her name is Stacy,” he replied. “And you spelled it wrong, anyway.” He grabbed the piece of paper the girl had written her own name on and scribbled _Stacy_ on it with a green crayon.

When it became obvious to Stacy that Greg wasn’t going to address her, she cleared her throat and began, “Mark’s asleep. I was just coming down here to... take a break.”

“Well this is definitely the most fun room in the entire hospital,” Greg replied shortly. “Although personally I find the morgue to be more conducive to philosophical rumination.” Joy signed something again and Greg wrote _rumination_ on the piece of paper between the two of them. “Rumination. It means thinking about stuff. And don’t ask me the sign for it because I don’t know. Look it up in your dictionary if you think you’re going to need it anytime soon.”

Stacy noted with interest that the girl didn’t seem to mind his harsh tone—although, she reflected, the girl likely couldn’t hear it. Instead she just reached into the pink flowered bookbag beside her and dug out an American Sign Language dictionary, flipping carefully through the thin pages and squinting at the fine print.

“I was surprised to find a child in your office,” Stacy continued leadingly.

Greg gave her a sharp look then went back to his sandwich. “I bet you were. But there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for it.”

“And that is...?” she pressed. She knew he was making it up as he spoke.

“The doctors say I need more protein in my diet,” he replied obtusely, chewing leisurely before he continued. “A child a week, plus the occasional reuben, about fills me up.”

Stacy glanced quickly at the girl, who was still bent over the dictionary. It appeared that she had not understood Greg’s remark, fortunately. “She seems right at home,” Stacy prodded. “And you certainly didn’t know sign language the last time we met.”

Stacy realized she’d doomed any chance at _light_ conversation with that remark. “Yes, the last time we ‘met’”—he emphasized the word she had chosen poorly—“I liked golfing and the tango. But since then I’ve had to come up with _new_ hobbies.”

Stacy sighed. “Greg—“

“I never really liked antique shopping, though,” he went on heedlessly. “I was just doing it to be nice. Or rather, for the sex.” Stacy glanced at the child, who was eating her sandwich and displaying little interest in the grown-ups’ conversation. “’Cause nothing got you in the mood like finding a 19th-century goat-roaster in prime condition—“

“Greg, why do you always have to be such an”—she cupped a hand around her mouth on the side of the child, just in case she was watching—“such an _a-s_?”

He gave her an odd look but mimicked the gesture. She knew she was being made fun of. “Because I _like_ being an a-s,” he told her. “It’s one of those hobbies you can perform from almost any position.”

Stacy continued to shield her lips from the child’s eyes. She wasn’t taking any chances, however cavalier Greg might be. “I’m surprised this child hasn’t been traumatized by your remarks, since she’s obviously been around you for some time.”

“Speaking of a-ses,” he went on, ignoring her last comment, “why are we talking like them? What’s with the little hand thing?”

Stacy sighed. “I’m just trying to be a little bit discreet,” she told him. He looked at her blankly. “Of course such niceties are lost on you, how silly of me to forget that. Can’t she read lips?” She nodded her head towards the girl.

“I have no idea,” Greg shrugged, taking a bite of his sandwich. “She can, however, hear perfectly well.” Stacy knew from his raised eyebrow that he had been waiting to spring that on her, just for her embarrassed reaction. She tried to give him as small a display as possible. Not that it stopped him from rubbing her mistake in. “I can see how you might _assume_ she was deaf, because of the sign language. But—and interestingly enough, this continues our previous subject of conversation—when you _assume_ you make an—“

“ _Why_ doesn’t she speak?” Stacy knew it wasn’t any of her business, nor did she really have a burning desire to know, but she felt she ought to cut him off.

“I suppose it’s because she doesn’t have anything nice to say,” he suggested easily. Joy stuck her tongue out at him and he narrowed his eyes. “She’s a bitter and misanthropic child...” Joy signed something and he wrote _misanthropic_ on her piece of paper. “It means you hate everyone.” She signed something else and he rolled his eyes. “Yes, very clever.”

Stacy imagined Joy had signed something along the lines of, _Like you?_ , because the child looked very satisfied with her comeback. Stacy had always been more observant than the average person and Greg had taught her to hone her skills even more—although of course she hadn’t reached his own lofty pinnacle of deductive reasoning. Still, it didn’t take an observational genius to notice Greg’s high level of comfort with the child, the way he had milk in his refrigerator for her, the fact that he’d learned sign language—

No doubt noticing the thoughtful gaze in Stacy’s eyes, Greg suddenly said, “It was the radiation.”

Stacy looked at him questioningly, because of both the odd remark and the unusually soft tone in his voice. “The radiation?”

“The radiation... fried her vocal cords,” he clarified.

“Oh,” Stacy replied, as realization sunk in.

“She... wandered down here from the pediatric oncology ward one day,” he went on. He cleared his throat and forced his tone closer to his usual level of snideness. “And now I just can’t get rid of her. Like some sort of fungal pathogen.”

Stacy ignored the glibness. In some ways she was surprised Greg had actually formed an attachment to a random child, but in other ways she knew it was perfectly in character for him—that is, unpredictably, unexpectedly, guilelessly sweet. Like when he used to work on their anniversary, because it was just a random date that didn’t mean anything to him—and then he’d send her flowers weeks later for no reason, just because he’d been thinking of her. And the flowers for no reason always more than made up for ignoring the anniversary.

Stacy wanted to ask how the girl was doing, but of course she couldn’t, not when the child was in the room. Likely Greg would lie anyway. The girl looked healthy enough, Stacy thought, giving her what she hoped wasn’t an obvious once-over. She was a little thin, but apparently she was well enough that she didn’t need to be monitored constantly.

“It’s a wig,” Greg offered helpfully, of course spotting Stacy’s examination.

Joy frowned and shook her head vigorously, to demonstrate that her straw-colored hair did not detach itself from her scalp.

“I’m sure it’s real,” Stacy assured the girl fondly. She was almost... preternaturally adorable, really. Especially those bright blue eyes. They looked familiar to Stacy somehow—probably reminded her of one of her relatives’ children. She glanced down at the styrofoam container full of french fries. “I see lunches in the pediatric oncology department have changed somewhat,” Stacy noted wryly, turning to Greg to tease him about treating the girl.

He put his hand up to his mouth in imitation of Stacy’s previous attempt to thwart lip-reading. “Don’t tell her, but it’s her last meal,” he whispered conspiratorially. “They said to give her whatever she wanted.”

Joy threw a french fry at him but grinned. Greg plucked it off his shirt and popped it in his mouth, undisturbed by the grease spot it left. “I wanted some of yours anyway,” he assured her.

 **

Stacy was not going to make a habit of wandering towards Greg’s office when she needed a break from sitting in her husband’s room. She was _not_. Two times did not a habit make, she assured herself when she wandered past the sign for the Department of Diagnostics the next day. Maybe the little girl would be there again—although really, what kind of parent would allow their young daughter to be babysat by Greg if they had ever actually _met_ him? Stacy decided she would ask Joy if she had any brothers or sisters that her parents were at home with instead. The girl herself was not that great of a conversationalist, of course, but Stacy was... intrigued by Greg’s interaction with her. It was a side of him she had never had the opportunity to see before, even though they had been involved for so long. Maybe his bitterness about his leg had, eventually, been balanced out by... something else.

As Stacy approached the glass-walled office, she spotted movement inside and paused in the hallway, hidden by the partially-open vertical blinds. Greg was sitting at his desk—with the little girl on his lap, or rather on his good leg. His arm was around her, and they were both concentrating fiercely on the Gameboys they held. Apparently they were engaged in some sort of electronic competition with each other, accompanied by much good-natured jostling, squirming, poking, and giggling (from Joy, mostly, though Stacy saw Greg break into a chuckle more than once during her brief observation).

Something in Stacy’s chest crumpled up like a bit of tissue paper, seeing the expression on Greg’s face, the comfort of his movements. He was—having fun. He was—happy, at least at the moment. Her chest literally ached watching him, although she didn’t know if it was a good kind of hurt or not. There was some envy, certainly, and some melancholy, remembering being on the receiving end of similar smiles—remembering being the _only_ person on the receiving end of similar smiles. But to be upset because _he_ was happy felt disturbingly like a reaction _he_ would have, that _she_ would have chastised him for.

At any rate, this interaction with the girl could only be temporary, right? Stacy had meant to corner Wilson and finagle details of Joy’s condition out of him, but either way she had to be leaving the hospital soon. If she was getting worse—although her smile was lively enough at the moment—she would be out of _everyone’s_ lives soon, and if she was getting better, surely she would be going home to her parents. Maybe Stacy could pry some information out of that _other_ big-eyed girl who followed Greg around, the one who looked barely older than Joy but was ostensibly a doctor. The one who had such an obvious crush on him. Surely she would be easy—

And then Stacy saw it. Greg and Joy looked at each other and grinned over some shared inanity, and she knew instantly where she had seen the girl’s intense blue eyes before—on _him_. She actually took a step back as the realization hit her, then ducked quickly around the corner before Greg could look up and see her hovering there, spying on him. She needed to find Wilson _now_.

 **

He was walking heedlessly down the hall in the Oncology ward, concentrating more on the x-ray in his hand than the people around him. Of course he was the head of that department, as well as a well-respected and –liked physician, so most people quickly got out of his way. People usually got out of Greg’s way, too, but only because they knew he would just run them down if he could. “James!” Stacy hissed, catching up to him. It was a change from the usually barrage of “Dr. Wilson” and he glanced up in surprise. “Why didn’t you tell me that Greg had a daughter?” she demanded without further introduction.

Wilson lowered the x-ray and squirmed through several different facial expressions as they continued down the hallway. It was an adorable response, and she wasn’t even one of the hordes of women who were attracted to him. Stacy still pinned him with an icy glare, though, until he finally coughed out, “I was trying not to tell you _anything_ about Greg. It didn’t seem like the best subject for conversation.”

Stacy rolled her eyes. “You don’t have to tell me about his every megalomaniacal abuse of power in the pursuit of solving the puzzle of disease,” she chastised him, “or about every doe-eyed doctor he’s sleeping with.” Wilson opened his mouth to protest, but she cut him off. “But _having a child_? That’s one of those things you just don’t leave out about people.”

They were silent for a moment as Stacy fumed and Wilson quickly turned the situation over in his mind. “How did you find out about her?” he probed, not wanting to give away any information his one friend was trying to keep from his _other_ friend.

“I met her yesterday,” Stacy admitted. “She was in his office.”

“She’s around all the time,” Wilson told her pleasantly. “She’s grown up here. Nice girl.”

Stacy shook her head and sighed in frustration. “He told me she was some wandering patient from pediatric oncology. That her vocal cords had been fried by radiation treatments.” The smirk on Wilson’s face and his snort of laughter not entirely disguised as a cough rubbed in the fact that she’d been had. “I assume _that’s_ a complete fabrication?”

“Fortunately, yes,” he confirmed.

“I should have known.” They turned a corner. “She _is_ deaf, then?”

“Um, no,” Wilson replied, somewhat hesitant. House had to know that with Stacy hanging around the hospital as much as she was, and being the kind of person she was, she would find out about Joy sooner or later. He just wasn’t sure _he_ wanted to be the one who told her. Still, Stacy’s steely gaze propelled the details out of him. “She can hear perfectly well, and her vocal cords appear to be undamaged. She just... doesn’t speak.”

“She doesn’t speak,” Stacy repeated dubiously.

“She makes noise,” Wilson clarified. “Laughing, crying, screaming on occasion.” He looked like he was remembering a particularly unpleasant occurrence. “But she doesn’t talk.”

“Why not?”

“House says... she just doesn’t want to.” At Stacy’s dubious look he quickly continued, “He had all kinds of tests done when she was younger, consulted a number of specialists... and then he decided there was nothing wrong with her, and that she would talk when the time was right.”

Stacy rolled her eyes. Again, that sounded just like Greg, in a contradictory way—assume the experts were wrong and go for the least likely diagnosis, even though there was no way to prove it. “Well, who’s her mother?” she finally asked, a bit more pointedly than she had intended. “Did you decide to just not mention he’d gotten married, too?”

Even Wilson snickered a bit at that. “He’s definitely not married. Or involved,” he assured her. He’d been amazed enough that his friend Stacy had been compatible enough with House for their relationship to last for years; he couldn’t imagine a _second_ woman being able to accomplish that feat. “Joy’s mother is actually here at the hospital... in the coma ward.”

“What?” Stacy was thoroughly confused at this point.

“She was an old girlfriend of his—casual, before you,” he answered, pushing through a set of doors. “Cassie? Don’t know if he ever mentioned her...” Stacy shrugged. The name didn’t ring a bell. But then again, Greg was the sort of person who liked to refer to his exes by clever but derogatory nicknames instead of their real names. One of these days she was going to ask Wilson what _her_ moniker was. “Anyway, she was a doctor, and she went down to work with the Peace Corps in Guatemala.”

“The Peace Corps?” Stacy repeated with some disbelief. Certainly didn’t _sound_ like Greg’s ‘type.’

“It _was_ a casual relationship,” Wilson reminded her. “She came down with these mysterious symptoms, which were further complicated by her pregnancy, and she came here to be diagnosed.”

“And ended up in a coma,” Stacy surmised.

“Unfortunately,” he confirmed. “But House had already convinced her to have Joy delivered by C-section at six months, so she was fine. And Cassie left Joy in his custody.”

“Wait a minute,” Stacy said suddenly, stopping Wilson in his tracks with a hand on his arm. “She left the girl in his ‘custody’?”

Wilson shrugged. “If you’re going to make a joke about the mother not being in her right mind, I have to tell you, I think they’ve all been done—“

“But Greg is her father,” Stacy interrupted leadingly.

Wilson hesitated. “Her _adoptive_ father,” he clarified, feeling slightly guilty and hoping like h—l that his old friend didn’t pick up on it.

“ _Not_ biological?” she pressed.

“Their romantic relationship was over years before Joy was born,” Wilson reminded her. She didn’t seem to notice that he didn’t really answer the question. “And Cassie wasn’t interested in naming the biological father, so...”

Stacy looked thoughtful. Too thoughtful. “They have the same eyes,” she mused stubbornly.

Wilson did his best nonchalant voice. “Eyes are eyes,” he told her vaguely. “They just happen to be the same color on both of them.” That was what House liked to tell people, anyway.

 

**************

_@ age 16_

Dr. House limped his way into Cuddy’s office unbeckoned and dropped heavily into one of the chairs in front of her desk. Looking up from her endless paperwork in some surprise, she allowed herself only a moment to reflect on how much older they’d both gotten over the years—an obvious effect of time, of course, but one she rarely stopped to notice. Considering all the garbage that circulated through his body, chemical as well as emotional, Cuddy was always surprised to see that House had actually aged rather well... of course, all the drugs probably acted as preservatives, she decided. She certainly couldn’t imagine him going home to slather on wrinkle cream or even drinking an extra glass of orange juice in the pursuit of better health and appearance. He looked unusually tired today, though, but the cause for that was obvious as well.

“Something I can do for you?” Cuddy asked, her tone softer than it might have been a few days ago. She knew he could hear it and hated the show of sympathy, but unlike him, she actually felt badly for people in unfortunate circumstances.

“Joy needs a kidney,” he said bluntly, hands braced on his cane. He looked everywhere but at her.

Cuddy nodded tightly. “I know, I read the charts. House, I can assure you, we’re doing everything we can to find a donor—“ She really, _really_ hoped he wasn’t going to ask her to bump his daughter, the girl who’d grown up among them at the hospital, to the top of the list. Because she would definitely be tempted to.

“The odds of you finding a perfect match from a random stranger any time soon are infinitesimal,” House interrupted. He sounded exhausted, like he’d been up all night turning over whatever proposal he had in mind. “A blood relative would be a much more likely candidate.”

Cuddy’s mind worked at top speed trying to untangle his remark. “House,” she began slowly, “if you’re talking about using one of her mother’s kidneys, I’m not really sure about the ethical implications of a coma patient—“

“I’m not talking about Cassie,” he countered. “I’m talking about me.”

For a moment Cuddy was taken aback. Then she began to process what he’d said. “You don’t mean that _you_ are her biological...” His eyes shifted to the left, confirming her accusation. Her jaw dropped. And to think, she’d wondered if House would ever _lose_ his capacity to shock her. “Please tell me you just found this out recently,” Cuddy demanded, and his eyes shifted to the right. “Oh my G-d,” she sighed heavily. “ _Please_ tell me you found this out _after_ you’d started treating her for CDS when she was a newborn.” He looked down at his shoes, and Cuddy stopped trying to count up the ethical violations she was discovering in this one-sided conservation. “Okay, please, at least tell me you didn’t know when her mother first came into the hospital _as your patient_.” House’s eyes flickered up to the ceiling, and Cuddy fought the urge to bang her head on the desk. Instead she rubbed her eyes and sighed, “G-d, I can’t believe the two of you kept this a secret for so long—“ She looked up and found his crystal blue eyes trained on her like laser beams. “ _She doesn’t know_?” His gaze didn’t waver, and Cuddy briefly contemplated how sad it was that she and House had spent so many years together that she could read his response in just a glance. “Fine,” the head of medicine finally told him, trying to make a mental list of the necessary forms. “We’ll get you tested right away—“

“Already did it,” he informed her, a bit more sprightly than when he came in. House stood and turned towards the door. “Perfect match. What are the odds, huh?” And with that, he left.

 

************

_@ age 28_

House discreetly tried varying the distance he held the patient’s file away from his eyes, in the hopes the type would come into focus before anyone else noticed. Of course, he had no such luck. “You need glasses, Dr. House,” a disgustingly amused voice observed.

“I don’t need glasses,” he shot back petulantly, limping away from the nurses’ station. “There’s just something wrong with my contacts today.”

“Yes, as in, those little plastic films aren’t strong enough to compensate for the increasing distortion of your ancient retinas,” the voice continued, following him.

“Hmmm,” House began, working up to something snide, “I think I’ve been gypped. I sent you to medical school to become a neuroscientist, and you’ve come out an ophthalmologist. I want my money back.”

Joy smirked at him. “All scholarships, pal,” she reminded him tartly. “You didn’t have to spend a penny.”

“What about all those bar crawls?” he shot back as they continued down the hallway.

Joy looked thoughtful. “Yeah, you still owe me some money from that tab you ran up on graduation weekend. Thanks for reminding me of that.”

House tried to hold back a smile by staring at the chart in his hand again. “Does that say _agiography_ or _aphiogramy_?” he asked, passing it to the blond woman.

“ _Arthroscopy_ ,” she corrected, handing the chart back. “You are totally going to kill someone one of these days.”

“Oh, I hardly think the odds of me killing someone due to age-related incompetence are any higher than the usual odds of me killing someone,” House assured her.

“You should retire,” Joy suggested, for perhaps the eighty-fifth time that month.

House rolled his eyes. “Yes, I could sit at home, watching soaps and babysitting my grandchildren—oh, wait,” he added facetiously. “I don’t _have_ any grandchildren, do I?”

Joy narrowed her eyes at him. “What do you want me to do?” she asked, with the irritation of having had this conversation too many times before. “Go out to some bar, get drunk, and get knocked up by some stranger?”

“Worked for you,” her father shrugged, and Joy rolled her eyes.


End file.
